"No, sir," Algorind said with complete honesty. In truth, the knight's words baffled him.
"What part was unclear?"
"Well," he began, "I am not certain how the girl came to be in the city at all."
"You would do better to concern yourself with finding her," the knight said in a severe tone. "And when you do, bring her to me at once. Not at the temple, though," he added in a milder voice. "The other brothers need not hear of this single lapse. We will keep the matter between us. Obey me in this."
"Yes, sir," Algorind responded, but never had he found obedience so heavy a burden. If he had done wrong, then he should have the censure of his brothers. To seek to avoid it was impious. He had no wish to shrug off his burdens or cover his lacks, but he was sworn to obedience, and he must do as Sir Gareth bid him. Once his duty was clear and his choices simple. That was no longer the case.
Deeply troubled, the young man settled back into his saddle and pondered the fog-shrouded path ahead.
Once Malchior had polished off the last bite of raspberry tarts and drained the decanter of wine, he went on his way. Left alone in his rented room, Dag Zoreth prepared to summon the image of his paladin spy. Sir Gareth had once reported to Malchior. Perhaps he still did.
It took much longer for Gareth to respond this time. Despite his impatience with the delay, Dag was not entirely displeased. A prolonged summons could be immensely painful, and he was not averse to giving the fallen paladin some of the pain he had earned.
The face that finally appeared in the globe was pale as parchment and tightly drawn. "So good of you to come," Dag said with heavy sarcasm. "I had an interesting visit from our mutual friend Malchior. Perhaps you have also spoken with him of late?"
"I have not, Lord Zoreth," the knight said flatly.
Dag believed him. By now, he understood that Gareth cloaked his lies in elaborate self-deceiving half truths. Any statement put that baldly was likely simple truth.
'What word on my sister and my daughter?"
"I have just met with a young paladin, the man who stole the girl from the farmer folk. His name is Algorind. The child got away from him. He was pursuing her through the city and was so mindful of the task before him that be did not notice he had drawn the attention of the city watch." He paused. "You know how single-minded the followers of Tyr can be."
"Indeed," Dag agreed dryly.
"The young paladin is very earnest. He reminds me of your father, when he was of like age," Sir Gareth mused.
Dag wondered, briefly, if the knight was deliberately trying to stir up his hatred of this Algorind. "And where is the girl now?"
"I do not know, She was seen near the Street of Silks, coming from the shop known as the Curious Past. This shop is owned by your sister. The paths of our quarry converge, which makes matters somewhat neater. I have sent this Algorind to redeem himself, with the instruction that he is to come only to me. When the child and the woman are in my hands, they are as good as yours. This I will do, without fail."
"See that you do," Dag said absently, then dismissed the enchantment.
The Street of Silks was not very far from the festhall where he rented a discrete room. Perhaps it was time to meet this long-lost sister of his.
Dag hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should discard his black and purple clothing for less distinctive garb. He decided against it. He had worn no other color nearly ten years. His lord Cyric might take umbrage with any change now.
The priest left the festhall and walked to the shop. He did not go directly, but took his time, moving from one shop to the next as if he had no thought but to consider the wares offered. He tried on a pair of boots in one small shop and in another spoke briefly with a comely half-elf girl who was busily stitching a small, pink gown.
He was impressed with the Curious Past. A fine building, two stories tall and stoutly constructed of timber frame filled with wattle-and-daub. The plaster was in good repair and freshly whitewashed. Small panes of good, nearly translucent glass graced the large window, and a tempting display of her unique merchandise-but not too tempting-was arranged on a table before the window. There were interesting touches everywhere. The banding on the wide-planked door was cunningly worked in a spiral, the symbol of time passing, but on several panes of glass was etched the pattern of an hourglass, tilted so that the flow of sand was arrested.
He lifted the door latch and walked in. A gnome woman came to greet him and to shoo away the raven that studied him with an intensity that bordered on recognition. Dag was not the least discomfited by this. He felt a certain affinity for the raven and the wolf, for these carrion-feeders benefited from strife. Indeed, some of the ancients believed that the ravens carried the souls of the dead into the afterlife. Dag's god had once been the lord of the dead, and Dag had sent many souls to Cyric's kingdom. In all, he had much in common with the shrew-eyed bird.
"How can I help you, sir?" the gnome asked, sliding an expert eye over him. Obviously marking his lack of interest in personal ornamentation, she ran through a likely litany; a set of goblets, a small statue, this carved chest, a scrying bowl?
"Nothing, please. I would like to speak with Bronwyn. I might have a commission for her."
The gnome's eyes cooled just a little. "She isn't available, I'm afraid. Would you like to leave a name and word of where she can contact you?"
"I will return. Perhaps tomorrow?"
"After highsun," the gnome said quickly. "That is the best time."
He thanked her and left, not believing a word of it. Remembering the friendly half-elf seamstress-and reconsidering the possible importance of that small pink gown- he retraced his steps to the dress shop and struck up a conversation.
The woman was quickly charmed and soon was chatting easily. "Yes, spring is late to come this year. The markets are just starting to open, and folk from here and beyond coming into the city…"
"Quite an influx of paladins, I notice," he said casually. "I rode past the Halls of Justice this morning. Such a racket they made, with their endless bashing away at each other."
She made a face. "Let them keep at it, and leave the rest of us alone. One was around the other day." She glanced down at the pink silk, which she had fisted in both hands. She smoothed out the wrinkles and seemed to reconsider saying more.
But Dag had already learned quite a bit. He leaned closer to the woman. "Perhaps you can help me. If I were to need a special gift for a lady, something different and rare, where should I go?"
"Oh, to Bronwyn's shop, of course. The Curious Past." Her face fell slightly. "You have a lady who requires a special gift?"
"My mother," he lied smoothiy. The woman brightened again. So predictable, he noted with a touch of scorn. No wonder he found so little time to waste on women.
But this one had been useful. The half-elf knew his sister well. She was working on the little gown with quick, neat stitches, not even putting aside her work for their flirtation. She expected to deliver the dress soon. It would seem that the child would soon return, and Bronwyn as well.
Dag spoke with the half-elf for a few more minutes, making an appointment to meet later in a certain discretely lit tavern-an appointment he had no intention of keeping.
It was a small cruelty, but satisfying. And more important, it served a purpose. If the half-elf wench thought herself jilted, she was less likely to speak of her embarrassment and the man who had caused it.
Dag promptly forgot the half-elf as soon as he left her shop. He had more important things to tend. Somewhere in this city was a paladin who called himself Algorind. Before the day was through, Dag intended to roast the paladin's heart over purple fire.